WHILE I WALK to my King's house at the end of the day the travellers come to ask me- 'What hast thou for King's tribute?' I do not know what to show them or how to answer, for I have merely this song. My preparation is large in my house, where the claim is much and many are the claimants. But when I come to my King's house I have only this single song to offer it for his wreath.
WOMAN, THOU hast made my days of exile tender with beauty, and hast accepted me to thy nearness with a simple grace that is like the smile with which the unknown star welcomed me when I stood alone at the balcony and gazed upon the southern night. There came the voice from above: 'We know you, For you come as our guest from the dark of the infinite, the guest of light.' Even in the same great voice thou hast cried to me: 'I know you.' And though I know not thy tongue. Woman, I have heard it uttered in thy music, 'You are ever our guest on this earth, poet, the guest of love.'
